The Dying Detective
by blackdog-lz
Summary: Modern rewrite of Conan Doyle's Dying Detective
1. Chapter 1

Hi, so this is my modern rewrite of ACD's Dying Detective and I hope that you like it. As with most everything I wrote this is a prompt fill, but since it got a bit longer than the rest I decided to post it as a individual story.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything and I'm not making any money with it either

* * *

**The Dying Detective**

Part 1

John had been away for a few days, one of his old friends from college had gotten married and he had been invited. It had been a nice celebration and for once John hadn't thought about Sherlock. Much. He always worried a bit, when Sherlock was left on his own. The man was liable to burn down the flat in one of his experiments. He had done so, more than once.

So John was pleasantly surprised to see the flat still standing and no fire fighters in sight, when he came home. While he had told Sherlock, when he would come home, he hadn't expected that the detective would actually pick him up from the train station.

He also hadn't expected Mrs Hudson to nearly jump at him, the second he unlocked the front door. The poor woman was nearly out of her wits and babbling something about Sherlock being sick.

This was unheard of and the worry that emanated from Martha Hudson, started to unsettle him too. So leaving his duffle bag on the floor of their living room, he entered Sherlock's room.

As usually, it was gloomy in the small room. The shudders drawn to leave all the light out and Sherlock was hidden behind a mountain of blankets. Even in the dark, John could see his gaunt, pale face and the eyes shining with fever.

"Goddamn Sherlock, why haven't you called a doctor?" John asked and stepped closer.

Sherlock's, "Stand back! Stand right back!" however stopped him right in his tracks.

"The hell for."

"I'm contagious."

"Wouldn't be the first time I'll be around contagious patients. I'll just want to help you."

"Exactly! You'll help best by doing what you're told."

"Of course Sherlock."

"Good, it is for your own sake, you know. Besides I already know what's wrong with me. I have been poisoned with a deadly disease from Sumatra."

At this John instinctively took a step forward, only to be stopped by a hard glance from Sherlock, "As I said, it is contagious. By touch. Keep your distance." The voice was a fierce snarl and again managed to stop John.

"I don't care, Sherlock. I would treat a stranger with a disease that could affect me, so I'm sure as hell are gonna treat my friend." The next step he took was stopped with a venomous grey eyes. "You're not yourself, so I will treat you, whether you like it or not."

"If I am to have a doctor, whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence," Sherlock said.

And that comment stung. John felt a cold hand clench his intestines and felt utterly incompetent and incredible used.

"You have no confidence in me then?"

"As a friend, but face it John, you are an ex-army surgeon, working as a locum, your skills in treating poisonous maladies are inferior."

John took a deep breath, closed his eyes and really hoped that this was not his friend speaking, not the man he had spend the past few months patching up, running after and starting to see more like a little brother he never had.

"I just write that up to your fever, but if you really have no confidence in me, then who can I get, that you have enough confidence in."

"Culverton Smith, he lives in 13, Lower Burke Street. He is a botanist, but he has the most vast knowledge on every obscure poison and disease there is."

John nodded and gave Sherlock on last look over, the man was gasping for breath and was visibly shaking even under the thick blanket. It didn't look good and it was a strange feeling seeing the normal so active detective like that.

"I'll get him, okay. Just, ... just don't die while I'm gone." John said and turned around, not waiting for an answer from Sherlock.

* * *

The taxi, he had taken, had stopped directly in front of 13, Lower Burke Street. It was a tall apartment building in the middle of a block full of them. John paid the driver and stepped out, looking worriedly up and down the buildings front. Taking a deep breath, he walked up to the front door and searched the doorbell panel. Smith lived on the fourth floor and John rang like a mad man.

Even after several minutes of incessant ringing, no one answered through the intercom. John used one of Sherlock's favourite methods to enter an unknown apartment building. He simply chose one bell and rang it, then told however answered that he had forgotten his keys inside. Seconds later he was in the building and on his way to the fourth floor.

Culverton Smith's flat was halfway up the hall and, with fear building in his stomach, John realized that the door was still open. He cursed himself, when he realized that he didn't had his gun with him and slowly approached the door.

The lock was broken and the door showed a clear footprint, where it was busted. John stopped at the door jamb and listened for a minute. Only when he didn't hear anyone or anything moving inside did he dared to look through the small gap and into the apartment.

Inside everything was still, but it looked as if a bomb had exploded. John opened the door completely, slipped into the apartment and closed the door behind him again.

It spoke volumes about how far Sherlock had influenced him, that he didn't call the police first, but instead started to rummage through the flat, hoping to find any clue to help his friend.

The flat was in shambles all over the floor. Drawers pulled out and overturned, shelves cleaned by sweeping stuff off and right onto the ground. Amongst the debris John found shards from beakers and other chemical appliances.

John shifted through them and tried avoid getting cut on any of the shards, but when he opened a small box, lying among some books, a spring was activated and pricked his finger. In surprise John let go of the box and seeing a drop of blood, stuck his finger in his mouth. It was nothing big and had stopped bleeding fast, so John ignored it and continued on through the flat.

The bedroom looked as chaotic as the rest of the flat, minus the beakers and plus some clothing. Just like the living room, John went over it carefully, making sure that he wouldn't miss a thing.

He found a leather bound book, when he searched under the bed. Smiling in triumph, he pulled the worn diary out and opened it. Every page was filled with a tight-spaced scrawl and John flew over the pages as fast as he dared. He knew that he was running out of time, he had already spend nearly an hour going through the stuff in the living room and kitchen and he felt Sherlock's life ticking away with every second he wasted.

Finally he reached the interesting part and started to curse. There, ridden down neatly, was Smith's plans and actions. Not only had the man killed his nephew Victor Savage, but when he had realized that Sherlock was on him, had also infected Sherlock with a pathogen from Sumatra called Tapaluni fever. But Sherlock would never be so stupid as to get himself infected like Culverton had described.

Then literally the light bulb in his head was turned on, as he realized what Sherlock had done. The idiot had let himself get infected on purpose, to prove that Smith was the murderer. It was right up Sherlock's alley to do something so incredibly idiotic. He was never, ever going to leave Sherlock alone again. And when the detective would make it through this, John was going to kill him.

John continued to read, until he found where Smith had placed the antidote and threw the diary back under the bed. Black dots invaded his vision as he got up and he felt himself sway on the spot for a second, before he saw clear again. Must have gotten up too fast, John though and moved back into the kitchen.

Why Smith had hidden the antidote under the kitchen sink, John had no idea, but he guessed it was some weird, crazy scientist way. Probably came together with the strange forenames and the tendency to experiment in flats.

The antidote was safely put in a handkerchief and then placed in his jacket pocket. He closed the door on his way out and swore to himself to call Lestrade, the second he had injected Sherlock with the antidote.

On his way back to 221B, he started to get a headache. Probably tension related, which was something that was happening more often than not, when one worked with Sherlock Holmes. Judging by the way his stomach was protesting at every curve the cap took, John guessed that this would be one hell of a migraine too.

He was relieved, when he finally reached Baker Street. The world tilted dangerously the moment he got out of the cap and he had to gulp hard against the uprising nausea. He held on to the taxi longer than necessary and swore himself to fall into his bed, the second he had injected Sherlock and screw the broken in flat and Culverton Smith.

By the time he reached the front door of their flat, his legs felt like jello and he was not quite sure if he really could make it up the stairs. The banister was his greatest friend, as he pulled himself up the stairs, feet getting heavier and vision getting darker. He was lucky, that Mrs Hudson didn't come out and stopped him, otherwise he would have never made it up the stairs.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was yelling at himself that this was not an ordinary migraine. That something was really wrong, but he ignored that voice for now. Sherlock needed the antidote and unconsciously his hand padded his coat pocket to make sure that it was still there.

Just inside their living room, John stumbled over his own duffel back, felt his leg give out underneath him and he connected with the ground. The last thing he saw was the coarse carpet of their flat, before everything went black.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

The second he heard the front door, Sherlock hid his mobile between the blankets. Playing solitaire, while he pretended to be sick and waited for John to come home, had become his main pastime. He felt vaguely bad for insulting his friend and his medical skills earlier, but John was not an actor and Smith needed to belief him completely.

Sherlock frowned, when he only heard one slow and stumbling tread up the stairs. He had expected two and one of them should be hurrying up the stairs, not this.

This was destroying his whole plan. Culverton was supposed to come with John, then the botanist would gloat about his deeds and Sherlock would record everything with his phone. Then Smith was supposed to open the curtains, which was Lestrade's signal to come in. Smith would be arrested and Sherlock would tell John everything about his ingenious plan and the doctor would congratulate him. Or probably punch him first, depending on how relieved he was.

At the sound of someone collapsing in the living room, Sherlock shot up and out of bed. In a few quick steps, he was at the door and then in the living room. The sight burned into his mind and he knew that, thanks to his photographic memory, he would never forget it.

John was convulsing helplessly on the floor, white foam dripping from his lips and his hand banging against the table leg. Sherlock was frozen on the spot for a few seconds, before he finally was able to will his legs to move. At the same time, he tried to remember what to do.

'_Don't try to hold someone with a seizure down, just remove everything close by and wait until it's over._` it was John's voice in his head, that calmly informed him about his next steps.

Sherlock pushed the table to the side and kicked the duffel bag into a corner and waited. Unconsciously he counted the seconds until John's body finally stilled.

He immediately went down on his knees and turned John on his side. Spit and blood dripped from his lips and John's blue eyes were glazed over and half open. For a second Sherlock was convinced that his friend was dead, before he heard the uneven breaths John took and saw the small flutter of the lids, as they closed and half opened again.

"John. John, can you hear me?" Sherlock got no reaction and his heart began to race in his chest. Ambulance, he needed to call an ambulance. Carefully he padded down John's pockets, but instead of a phone, he found a small vial wrapped in a handkerchief. If it were physically possible, Sherlock was sure that his stomach just relocated to his knees.

The antidote against his non-existent disease. John had been to Culverton's flat, hadn't found Smith, but had probably broken in. Then on the search for the medication, must have come into contact with one of the poisons Smith kept. Frantically Sherlock searched for the tell tale pinpoint of a needle and found it on John's left hand.

Anger at himself overcame him for a second and Sherlock hit the floor with all the strength he had. He felt the bones in his hands protest at the rough treatment, but greeted the pain. He had earned this and so much worse, for putting John in these situation, over and over again.

One glance into John's sightless, slow blinking eyes and guilt flooded him again. '_No!_` He yelled at himself, '_I need to concentrate, need to help John._` Sherlock started his search for the phone again and quickly located it.

After a quick 999 call, he did his best to make sure that John was comfortable, but in the end he couldn't do more than wait and think about how he was going to kill Smith with his bare hands, once he found him.

The medics arrived fast and let him drive with them in the ambulance. John's steady heartbeat peeping in the back, calming him down.

In the hospital, he was forced to wait again, but he needed to contact Lestrade. At least his mind was occupied for the first half hour of their stay. Sherlock told the DI what had happened and had received a yelled reprimand, that he had earned and that made him feel worse, even if he didn't let it show.

When the Inspector had finally calmed down, Sherlock gave him Smith's address and told him to search for a small ivory box, most likely open and with a released spring mechanism.

"And by god, don't touch anything, Lestrade."

"We'll be extra careful Sherlock. Call us if you have any news."

Sherlock didn't reply, just hung up and started to pace up and down the corridor, cursing himself and wishing that he could turn back time.

Finally, after an hour of driving the other people in the waiting room insane, a doctor approached him. The look on the woman's face send Sherlock's heart plummeting down to his knees, where it joined his stomach.

* * *

It hadn't been the sight of the ventilator breathing for John, that nearly made Sherlock collapse, but the fact that they had taped his eyes shut.

The doctor had explained him, that John's eyes wouldn't close properly after the seizure and, to prevent them from drying out, they had taped them shut. It made John look so much more helpless.

John's heart was still beating regularly, if a bit slow, but a fever was raging through him and the doctors didn't know what kind of poison was flowing through John's veins. Not that they would find out. Culverton was too smart for this. The only thing the doctor could tell him, was that John was dying and they couldn't stop it.

In contrast to the rest of John's body, his fingers were ice cold, when Sherlock took them.

"I'm sorry John. This, all of this, is my fault. I should have let you in, told you my plan. But you know me. I... I don't work well with others." Sherlock fell silent, he wanted to say so much more, but couldn't find the words to express himself.

The door to the ICU room opened and footsteps stopped just a mere feet inside the room. "Oh fuck." It was Lestrade. Sherlock's head whirled around and his eyes zeroed in on the Inspector. He was wearing the same stupid gown, cap, mask and cloves he did, to protect John from further pathogens, the doctors had said, but the small part of face that was visible showed clear features of being worried.

"Have you found Smith."

Sherlock could see Lestrade's shoulders sinking in defeat. "There was a fire, in Smith' flat. Nothing to go on in there."

Sherlock felt his hopes sink, Culverton was starting to disappear and was literally burning all bridges behind him. He was running out of time, in more ways than one. And he actually knew what to do. His big brother was the only one that could help him right now. If swallowing his pride and calling his brother would ensure that John had a better chance at surviving he would do this.

He leant closer to John's ear, made sure that only the doctor could hear him and not Lestrade, who still stood at the door. "Hold on John. Just a bit longer, please. I don't think I could live without you."

With one last look at John, Sherlock squeezed his hand and left the room. He had a call to make and a botanist to find.

* * *

While he waited for Mycroft to call back, Sherlock needed to see the flat for himself. The fire fighters had left the scene, leaving a few police officers to take care of the clean up.

The elevator was still turned off, so Sherlock had to take the stairs up to the fourth floor and the further up he got, the wetter the ground became.

The hallway leading to Smith' flat was completely soaked, water squelching out with every step Sherlock took. Inside the flat everything had been turned to soggy charcoal. Nearly every surface was blackened and what had been spared by the fire, had been soaked with water.

He drove his hands desperately through his hair, there was nothing worth salvaging in here. Culverton had done a good job at destroying the apartment. Still he went over everything, hoping to find something, anything that could lead him to Smith, or better yet, that could lead him to an antidote for John.

A frustrated half hour later, his phone rang. Sherlock scrambled at his coat, fearing for a second, that it could be the hospital calling. It was Mycroft and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, before accepting the call.

"All train stations, airports and bus stations are under observation by my men. If Smith is trying leave that way, we will know it."

"Good. Smith has no car, so these are his only means of transport. Do you have any idea, where he could be?" Sherlock really didn't like asking his older brother for help and he had agreed to help Mycroft the next time he asked, without moaning or evading the task, but John's life was worth this and so much more. And at least Mycroft hadn't forced him to attend the next Holmesanian Christmas dinner.

"Intel has it, that he was last seen at the Institute of Botany at London University."

"Thank you."

"I like the doctor too, Sherlock. He's the only one so far, that had managed to keep you at least half-way on a leash."

Again Sherlock hung up without saying goodbye. He had thanked his brother, that was more than enough. Turning on his heel, Sherlock stalked back out of the flat.

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time Sherlock reached the building, that housed the Institute of Botany. On the way, Sherlock had called the hospital, worry tying his stomach into knots.

John was slowly deteriorating, the doctor had ordered him to be put on dialysis, because his kidneys were giving up. Multiple organ failure was starting and the doctor had told him, that even if Sherlock could provide an antidote soon, she couldn't guaranty for John's survival.

Sherlock needed a moment to calm himself down after these news. Only when he felt his heart slow down and the anger, not only at himself, but also at Culverton, overtaking his worry, did he texted Lestrade. He had phoned enough for the day and texting avoided questions he didn't want to answer.

At this relative late hour, the institute was fairly empty, except for a few stranglers. Smith was in one of the glass houses, collecting specimen to take with him on his flight.

Sherlock was quiet, when he slipped through the door and he took slow, shallow breaths, walked on tiptoes to minimize any potential sound he could make.

Smith only realized his presence, when Sherlock was just a few feet behind him. The botanist turned around, surprise on his features, the second he recognised Sherlock. By then Sherlock had already reacted and had pushed Smith onto the table. Plants went flying, as Sherlock pressed the man's shoulders down on the table, bending Smith in half and in the wrong direction.

Howling in pain, Smith tried to dislocate Sherlock's grip, but had seriously underestimated the detectives strength. He changed his tactic and simply grabbed on to Sherlock's forearms to weaken the pressure.

"Didn't I poisoned you?"

"Your little ruse? Even an idiot would have looked through that."

"But not your little doctor friend. How is he by the way?"

"What poison did you use?"

"Let me go and I will tell you."

"Tell me and I will let you live." Sherlock sneered and bounced Smith's head of the table.

"You kill me and your friend will be dead too."

This time Sherlock snarled at him, but released the pressure, "The name of the poison and I will let you go."

"They are right, you know. John Watson has given you a heart, has made you weak."

"Who is they? The underworld? They are all just a bunch of gossiping washwomen. They don't know anything." Anger was not only a powerful motivator, it also managed to hide any other emotions and Sherlock was more than grateful that he knew how to act and how to use anger as a blanket to mask everything else. Because they were right, John Watson had given him a hear, or at least was working hard on it, and he was a better man for it. Not that he would ever tell John or anybody else about that.

"Now, what is the poison?"

"I only used one pathogen in London, Sherlock. Just one."

Finally Sherlock released Smith and took a step backwards, so that the botanist could right himself. "Tapaluni fever."

Culverton nodded and stepped over to the door. He turned around one last time to face Sherlock and smiled arrogantly back at him, "See you."

"You can bet you will." Sherlock replied and Culverton was out of the door. The detective closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing mind. John had had the antidote, it had been in his coat pocket, when he had entered the flat. Sherlock had found it, pulled it out and had placed it where?

The noise outside on the floor distracted him. Lestrade was, for once, on time and was arresting Smith. Judging by the wail, Culverton was not happy about that. Sherlock strode out the door and found Smith lying on the ground, hand cuffed behind his back and restrained by a police officer.

The detective stopped beside Culverton and smiled at the scowling man, "I lied."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Forgot to write it last chapter, but I'm not a doctor, so I apologize for every medical mistake (for spelling and grammatical mistakes of course too :)

This is the last part, enjoy reading :)

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Part 3

The stupid antidote had been in his pocket. He had it so close all the time and didn't know it. Lestrade had cursed impressively, when he had heard it and then had ushered Sherlock into a police car.

Sirens shrieking, they had made a remarkable short time to the hospital and now the doctor was wasting it by asking stupid questions.

"Yes, I am sure," Sherlock stated, "besides what worse could it do." His gaze moved from the doctor with the needle in her hand, back to John. He looked worse than before, sweat was rolling steadily down his face. The fever was still as high as ever, having spiked up to 40,5°C. IV's kept him hydrated, but Sherlock knew, that fevers that high, could lead to brain damage. Moreover John was slightly jaundiced, his liver slowly giving out too. And Sherlock was beginning to lose hope, especially after he had seen the fresh bank of machines, John had been hooked up to.

The antidote had to work, needed to work, because Sherlock didn't know what to do, when John would die. Probably find the last bit of cocaine hidden in their flat and let his mind be carried off. While thinking of one syringe, he watched another being pushed into an IV port and the medication inside being released into John's blood stream.

Again he couldn't do anything more than wait. And he hated waiting more than everything else. Normally, he had John as his company, or his skull and lately even bad telly. But now, suited up in hospital gear, there was nothing that could distract him. So the slow peeping echoed in his head, his breathing aligned with the swoosh of the ventilator and he settled in.

At some point Sherlock must have fallen asleep, half reclined back into the uncomfortable chair, legs spread out under John's bed. It was an alarm that woke him, a sound that he couldn't place at first, but soon, too soon, his mind told him where he was and what that alarm meant. By then the place was already crowded with nurses and doctors and he was pushed aside, useless once more.

His back hit the glass window, that faced the hallway, and he felt his fingers trying to scramble for any grip, but he found nothing to hold on to. Sherlock's heart stuttered, then stopped together with John's and he found himself sliding down the wall, watching the doctors fighting for a life. Every time a charge was send through John's body, Sherlock flinched. Once, twice, three times and still the sound of the flat line drowned out the noises of the doctors.

Sherlock closed his eyes, placed his head in his hands and cursed the alien feeling of the latex cloves. He couldn't look anymore, couldn't watch his only friend dying.

He had shut the outside world out completely, had closed his eyes, had blocked his ears with his hands and just hoped that he would wake up from this nightmare. It was a soft hand on his shoulder, that brought him out of his self-build cocoon. Brown eyes stared softly into his and immediately his gaze went past the nurse and to the bed.

The nurses were rearranging equipment, setting blankets back into place and Sherlock heard the wonderful noise of a steady heart beat. Slowly he struggled back to his feet, moved shakily back to the chair, that had been pushed aside during the resuscitation, and sat back down again.

He held on tight to John's hand, still cold despite the fever and laid his head on the mattress, ignoring the nurses bustling around him and just concentrated on the feeling of starched hospital sheets against his cheek and John's limb fingers in his hand.

* * *

While John had deteriorated fast, it took him far too long improve. That at least was Sherlock's opinion. The doctors, however were pleased with the progress, especially since they had nearly given him up in the first place. The sickly yellow skin tone had changed into pale and his kidneys had started working again, so they had taken him off the dialysis machine twenty-four hours ago. Twelve hours after they had given John the antidote and ten hours after his heart had stopped.

In all the time Sherlock had not moved from John's bedside, much to the doctors annoyance, but again Mycroft and his all mighty power had helped out. Sherlock had used the nurses changing rooms to shower and had changed clothing after Lestrade had brought some over, but that were the only occasions he would venture from John's side.

Another twenty-four hours and they had removed the ventilator and had carefully pried the tape away from lids. The doctor treating John couldn't suppress a smile, when John's eyes stayed closed. A smile Sherlock couldn't quite share, because he wanted to see John's eyes open again.

He did smile tough, when they moved John from the ICU and into a regular ward. With the move Sherlock finally got rid of the protective gear and he had his own bathroom in John's room. Besides, the other bed was empty and Sherlock used that for himself to spread out. Nearly three days in that too small, uncomfortable chair and he revelled in the ability to spread out again.

It took John another two days to wake up. He had shown first signs of waking, soon after they had moved him to the ward. Sherlock had prodded at him, to hasten the process along, until a nurse found out and threatened to throw him out, if he didn't stop. Therefore Sherlock was reduced to waiting again.

The first few times John woke up, wasn't really awake and aware, so Sherlock didn't count them. While John had opened his eyes, it had only been for a few seconds, a minute at most. He hadn't been able to focus, much less answer any questions the doctors of nurses had thrown at him. The words brain damage came up again and had taken every bit of relief Sherlock had felt, when he had seen John's blue eyes again.

When he saw John blink his eyes open again for the fourth time, Sherlock moved forward so that he was sitting on the edge of the chair.

"John?" he forced his voice to sound calm.

Bleary blue eyes moved over to him and focused on Sherlock's grey orbs, "S'lock?" The voice was rough with disuse and slurred, but it was there.

A small sigh escaped the detective, before he smiled, "Yes."

"Poisoned?"

If he suddenly wouldn't feel so guilty about the ruse, Sherlock would have jumped up and danced in joy. Even though it was just a word and not a sentence, it meant that John knew what was going on. The doctors could shove their brain damage to where the sun didn't shine.

"I have never been ill."

Confusion wrinkled John's forehead, "Why?"

"To catch a murderer. You got infected, when you fetched him for me." Sherlock explained. For now the short version would have to be enough. He would face the consequences of his actions as soon as John was better.

"You're an idiot." John's voice was slightly stronger, but mellow and still slurred and Sherlock wasn't sure if it was, because John was starting to forgive him, or because he was on his way back to sleep. "Why did you criticised my skills?"

Sherlock cringed at that, so not mellow, but rather because he was falling asleep again. The detective hadn't really feared this question, he had expected it and had an answer ready, he had just hoped that it would come far later. And the hurt behind John's eyes and in his voice felt like a knife into his stomach. The men and women, who were running the underworld had been more than right, because John was not only giving him an heart, he was definitely showing him what it felt to be human.

"Because you would have recognized that I wasn't really ill, no fever, no elevated pulse And you needed to be convincing to Smith."

He knew that this conversation was far from over, could see it clearly in John's eyes, but the doctor had problems keeping them open and Sherlock was slightly glad to delay this talk. There was still a lot of work ahead of him, to make sure that John knew of his confidence in his abilities and his friendship and he was going to fight for it. Because he would not lose his friend over such a stupid matter.

"Never again." John was already on his way to forgive Sherlock for his idiocy and the detective wondered, how he had earned this friendship.

"Never again, John. Never again." Sherlock whispered and watched as he fell asleep again. Carefully he took John's hand and held the warm appendage tight.

The End


End file.
